At Lord`s
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,Though my own red roses there may blow;It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping hostAs the run-stealers flicker to and fro,To and fro: -O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!
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